


Consummation

by Marquise



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, Loss of Virginity, Sequel, marriage AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-23
Updated: 2014-02-23
Packaged: 2018-01-13 13:13:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1227688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marquise/pseuds/Marquise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been months, and yet their bed is cold. Sequel to <i>Protection</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Consummation

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ocularis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ocularis/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Protection](https://archiveofourown.org/works/230778) by [Marquise](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marquise/pseuds/Marquise). 



Weeks had passed, and yet their union remained unconsummated.

There was a consideration in Petyr’s delay that Sansa was certainly grateful for, and yet with each passing day this odd state of limbo ate at her. Her chastity left her in jeopardy. A married woman had protection not afforded to a maiden, even one that was a traitor’s daughter. But a woman wedded but not bedded?

She did not know much, but she knew that this was a dangerous position to be placed in. She knew that nothing was certain now, that at any moment everything could break and send her back to her place.

She was determined that that not happen, though the weeks stretched into months with no end in sight.

Despite the cold bed, they still kept remain at each other’s side. Hardly a day went past when they were not in each other’s company, whether it be a long walk in the gardens or the simple sharing of a meal. Petyr was often gracious, speaking at length about the make-up of the court, about their own role within it. He never spoke in such a way to make Sansa feel as if she were being taught exactly, but at night she would sometimes reflect back on what he told her and realize the connectedness of it all, that each conversation built on the other, adding more and more detail to the tapestry. Petyr would speak at length about the importance of unions for political reasons, but also the pleasure that could come from them when both parties were in agreement. He never spoke of an equal union—indeed, it was always couched in these terms of _education_ —but there was no disrespect to be found in his statements.

Sansa absorbed. Sansa learned.

And one night she came to him.

It was not the girl he had wed who entered his chambers that night—nor, truth be told, was it a woman complete. But it was someone in-between, and more importantly it was someone who came willingly. 

He was standing at the window when she entered, unannounced, and appeared somewhat taken aback by her sudden appearance. His face lit up in a way that no mask could conceal, and he was quick to finish his wine, setting the empty goblet down with a metallic clang and gazing at her with a smile.

“Sansa?” It was as if he had never before seen her. She didn’t respond, merely crossed the room and pressed her lips to his. It was something that had been done countless times before—despite their lack of coupling they had danced around it, kisses and caresses meant to forestall anything else but only leaving them wanting more—and Petyr responded, hands tight on her waist and mouth opening, savoring her. He tasted of wine and the mint he always chewed, a taste not at all unpleasant and uniquely _Petyr_. When she pulled back just enough to observe him he was looking at her as if she wasn’t real.

Her own hands were gripping his doublet, the soft velvet crushed between her fingers. She would not break from this, she had told herself that on the way over here, the words ringing out in her mind along with the click of her shoes. She had decided that she was long-past sick of this uncertain state, that something must be done to break it. And, buried underneath that more practical idea was him, and the way he looked at her.

He was doing so now, his lips still inches from hers. Almost uncertain he kissed her once more, his hands migrating from her waist up, in between her shoulder blades to tangle in her lose hair. His beard scratched her skin but the roughness was not unpleasant, she was surprised to find. It made a burning path against ivory and set all her nerves on edge. The anxious feeling in the pit of her stomach only added to it. All her senses were heightened, leaving her with a level of pleasure that was henceforth unknown to her.

Pulling away she threaded her fingers through his own and drew him back with her, towards the massive bed that stood in the center of the room, almost as if in wait for them. 

Petyr’s footsteps followed hers and yet his eagerness seemed to be at bay. When Sansa turned to catch his eye she was more than a bit surprised by what she saw there—desire, for sure, but mixed with it was a sort of unease that she would not have expected from him. Nerves.

She should have, of course. Littlefinger might not have the capacity to feel nervous, but Petyr was not him, and Petyr was nothing if not vulnerable. This had been something she had picked up on in all those talks, something that had helped give her the strength to come here. 

She smiled. Not one of innocent, ladylike smiles that he was used to, but something with a hint of calculation, a hint of desire. A crack, as if were, in the mask of courtesy. If Petyr realized he did not balk, but instead allowed her to draw him to the bed. 

Lips met once more their hands tangled in silks, trying to feel skin. Sansa could hear her heart pounding in her ears, the pattern increasing as Petyr began to relax and give in, his body pressing against her and pushing her down into the furs. She had no desire to stop this though, not when he was between her legs, pulling at her gown to leave kisses to whatever bit of smooth skin he could claim, It was all so unlike what she pictured alone in bed (for after going over the day’s events she was known to indulge, more than once) and yet it was better. His fingers grazed the tops of her stockings, her dress pooled up between them, and her eyes met his just as his searching hand found the apex of her thighs. One side of his mouth curled upward into a half-smile as his fingers slipped underneath her smallclothes, pulling them away from her body, the cool air of his chambers letting her know just how wet she was. Sansa felt her skin flush, though whether from blush or desire she did not know, her eyes closing and a strangled sound leaving her lips when he began to caress, teasing her, drawing her out.

“Sweetling. So needy...” he muttered at her ear as he worked over her, a slow pattern that gave her no moment to catch her breath. Lips grazed her neck, teeth raking lightly over her skin until he could claim her mouth once more, just as his fingers dipped, slightly, into her entrance.

She could feel his need even through the layers that they wore, a heavy prod against her stomach that he pressed, almost wantonly, against her. At that moment she wanted more than anything to take it in her hand, to see if it felt as good with her fingers wrapped around it as it did with the silks in the way, but Petyr seemed to have other plans. His lips left hers to make a slow path down her still half-clothed body, grazing every part of her along the way, almost as if he was committing it all to memory. She watched his path with curious eyes, fingers tangling in his greying hair, and let out a soft, _“Oh!_ ” when his lips found their mark.

He laughed against her skin, tearing the smallclothes from her and holding her in place, his eyes wicked when they gazed up at her. Nothing could have prepared her for this, not the movement of his tongue against her folds, his searching fingers, the sheer rush of pleasure as he teased her center. He was meticulous in his approach, not allowing any bit her sex to be unattended, and Sansa could do not nothing but lay back and let the feelings wash over her, her body as taunt as a wire on his bed. If Petyr were not holding her in place, one hand upon a thigh and the other resting on her stomach she did not know what would happen, but she would not have avoided his mouth. Indeed she pressed down against it, seeking more, his name breathlessly repeated. 

And then she could speak no words. The rush he caused in her was like nothing she had given herself, a slow build that peaked at just the right moment, leaving her a shaking mess against his mouth. He held her still, working over her as her body convulsed, clearly savoring every moment of her ecstasy until she was panting in his bed, sweat-covered, half-lidded eyes watching him lick at his lips in hunger.

 He didn’t give her long to truly recover. His hands gripped her knees and pulled her across the bed so that she sat on the edge, pressed against him. Already he had made quick work of his laces and she has able to catch a glimpse of his cock in hand before he distracted her with a kiss. Soon he was parting he lower lips once more, the feel of his cock heavy between her legs, but before he could press forward, taking her with the need she knew he felt, he pulled back to look her in the eye.

His gaze was open, more so than she had ever seen him, and his voice shook when he spoke to her. “Are you sure about this?” It was a more vulnerable question than she would have suspected from him and it gave her pause. One hand moved back to cup his neck and hold his gaze, despite the fact that Petyr clearly wished to look down. _Nervous. He’s nervous_. The idea seemed so alien to her, especially as his lips were still wet with her, especially since Petyr moved so effortlessly through the more dangerous arena of court. But still, there it was, plain and simple.

She smiled at him and kissed him and that was all it took. He returned the kiss and he pressed into her, taking his time as he entered, stopping whenever her breath caught in their kiss—but resuming nevertheless, pressing until she broke, until he filled her completely. It was a pain unlike anything she had ever felt but there was almost something sweet behind it, as if she could already see how it would turn to pleasure. His arms wrapped about her he held her close, soft words of encouragement falling against her skin with each roll of his hips. Sansa held on, the pain slowly dying away as she suspected, but still her breath was too far gone to speak, her body a mess the likes of which she had never before felt. Soft whimpers, gasps and sighs were buried in Petyr’s clothed shoulder but he seemed not to mind her lack of words, the noises that she made more than enough to drive him on. 

The must have made quite a sight, Sansa knew, and yet there was nothing illicit in it. He was her husband, after all, a thought that entered her mind for the first time that evening just as she felt him tighten, heard her curse against her skin, his mouth biting hard enough to leave a mark. She could feel him pulse inside her, the thick member stretching even more against her delicate walls, her body taking more of him in by sheer instinct, draining him of his seed as he held her so close she was sure he would leave bruises dotted along her hips. At least he laid her down against his furs and with gentle hands he stripped her bare, her flushed skin appreciating the cool air, before curling up beside her to wrap himself against her without a word. She felt tired, spent and stained—the space between her legs smeared with blood and seed and her own wetness, a obscene gleam that Petyr ran his fingers along with pride—but there was a sense of completeness, a tightness in her chest that had nothing to do with fear.

It wasn’t until she woke in the morning that she realized that, despite the vulnerability he had shown her, he never removed his clothing.


End file.
